


Inquisitor

by aadarshinah



Series: Tales From The Ancient!John 'verse [6]
Category: NCIS, Stargate - All Series, Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1, Stargate Universe
Genre: Crossover, False Accusations, Gen, Investigations, M/M, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1684685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aadarshinah/pseuds/aadarshinah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Atlantis has a very high casualty rate. This makes certain people very curious.</p><p>[SG1 S10 + Ark of Truth; SGA S1- mid S4; NCIS S1-S5]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Inquistor means detective or investigator. 2) OSI is the Air Force Office of Special Investigations, the all-military AF version of NCIS, which really is just Navy/Marines. 3) If you remember in AJ, Lorne really is in a lot of trouble back on Earth for the things he did during the Hegira, i.e., hiding an alien spaceship in Earth orbit, helping the 23 Emigres return to Atlantis, and stealing almost all the ATA vaccine on Earth. 4) This makes liberal use of my backstory for Rodney, as well as John's human cover story. 5) God, what have I done?
> 
> Takes place roughly mid S4 SGA, at a point we have not yet reached.
> 
> I blame this, as I do all things, on popkin16.

**19 November, 2007 – Washington Navy Yard, Terra, Avalon**

The picture on the screen is of a dark-haired man in his early thirties with grey eyes, an open smile, and the words  _WANTED_  in bold-faced type at the bottom.

"This is Major Evan Lorne, formerly of the United States Air Force and currently number eleven on the OSI's most wanted list."

"Well, he certainly doesn't seem the type," Abby says, having stolen McGee's chair for the briefing and leaning back in it now. "Well," she adds at Gibb's look, "he doesn't. The Major doesn't look like a criminal, just sort of like an overgrown puppy. I bet you McGee here is more dangerous than him."

Gibbs shakes his head and gestures at the image on the screen with the remote. "Major Lorne is wanted by the Air Force for mutiny, sedition, espionage, forcing a safeguard, and desertion. The FBI recently dropped the treason charges against him for lack of concrete evidence."

Tony can't help but whistle. "That's an impressive list for a guy who never made the six o'clock news."

"His crimes were kept quiet by the DoD to keep from causing a panic. The Major defected while stationed in Afghanistan. It was believed that any televised coverage of his actions would result in enemy retaliation."

"Who'd he defect to? Taliban? Al-Queda? HIG?"

"Doesn't say. Doesn't matter either. All that matters is that he's gone over to the enemy."

"Uh, Boss?" McGee, God help him, actually raises his hand to ask. "I don't want to be the bearer of bad news, but he's an  _Air Force_  major. We don't have jurisdiction."

"Before he went rouge, Major Lorne was the direct commander of a battalion of Marines with an unusually high casualty rate – almost double the average."

"And you believe the two are related."

"You just don't suddenly decide to turn coat one day. My guess is that Major Lorne was feeding intelligence to the  _mujahideen_  long before he left the service."

"As interesting as this may be," Ziva says, tapping the end of her pencil against her notepad, "it says that this Lorne disappeared in the Hindu Kush Mountains. So unless you know something the OSI does not, he is a little out of our reach."

Gibbs' answering grin is reminiscent of the cat that caught the canary. "Major Lorne's former CO is in town. I have reason to believe that he may have valuable information about his former XO's activities."

"Okay. I'll bite. Who's his former CO?"

The image on the screen changes. "Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, the Air Force's own celebrity mathematician."

* * *

**Georgetown University, Terra, Avalon**

"I don't want to alarm you," Iohannes says  _sotto voce_  as they duck into a room backstage to get their things after the conclusion of his lecture and the hundreds of questions that had followed, "but there are suits stationed at all the exits and I don't think they mean to let us go."

Rodney almost drops the bag with their computers in it, not having bothered to take off his coat before the lecture – between the Device implanted in neck and the other behind his ear, it's all a scarf and a turned-up collar can do to hide the decidedly not-human tech that allow him to talk with Atlantis when they're in the city. As soon as he's righted it, he hits Iohannes on the arm. "How is that not supposed to alarm me?"

"I don't think they're here to hurt us."

"Oh, yes, because you're comprehensive and detailed three-second examination of them makes me feel much better about their intentions."

"They waited until the lecture was over, didn't they? If they were Trust or NID they would have stormed the stage with Asgard beams and automatic weapons."

Rodney crosses his arms. The bag with the computers in it hits his side, but he doesn't seem to notice. "So, that just means they're IRS or something. Doesn't mean I want to go along with them."

"I don't think we have much choice."

He has time to do little more than incline his head in the approaching agents' direction before they're set upon.

"Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard?" the man asks.

Iohannes gives them the smile he reserves for situations like this one, where they're about to be taken prisoner by some angry group of natives. Granted, this lot – a man and a woman, both wearing suits and keeping all their weaponry in their holsters – doesn't seem all that angry, but he's still leery of anyone who might work for any of the Terran governments. "That's what they call me."

The man flashes a badge. "Special Agent DiNozzo, NCIS I'm afraid you're going to have to come with us."

* * *

**Washington Navy Yard, Terra, Avalon**

"They're in interrogation three, Boss," he says as Gibbs steps off the elevator, a fresh coffee cup in hand.

"Any trouble bringing them in?"

"Other than the fact Sheppard's got more metal in his body than some junk drawers I've seen, none. Made getting them through security interesting through."

"Them?"

"One of his colleagues was with him when we went to bring him in, a Doctor Rodney McKay. He insisted he come with. I didn't see the harm. He mostly spent the ride in typing on his phone and muttering about how, if he wanted to be kidnapped, he would have stayed at home."

Gibbs' eyebrows go up at that. "What do we know about him?"

"Canadian citizen, born in '68; PhDs in astrophysics and mechanical engineering. Been working for the Air Force since '91 in a highly classified research capacity." He hands over the file, thin as it is. "Most everything else is redacted. The last entry has him being transferred to Nellis Air Force Base from McMurdo a year ago.

"Get this, though: McGee did some digging. None of McKay's bank accounts show any checks from the US government being deposited since December of last year. For fifteen years they're as regular as clockwork, but twelve months ago it all stops. Only money coming in has been prize money, lecture fees, and transfers from a Swiss account that was opened two months before he was cut off."

"Now that's interesting. Anything similar with the Colonel's finances?"

"Not that anyone can tell, but the guy has money coming left, right, and centre and a series of bank accounts that would make a mob boss proud. It'll take some time."

"Get McGee on it."

"Already done, Boss."

"Well then, let's see what they have to say, shall we?"

* * *

Sheppard, at least, has taken off his jacket. It's some dark grey wool thing, too fashionable for him to have picked out for himself (judging by the lazy, almost apathetic way he's slouching his chair) and unworn enough to be a recent purchase. Between it, the grey slacks, and the dark brown V-neck sweater he still wears, he looks rather more like a pompous academic asshole than an Air Force lieutenant bird. Not, of course, that that's saying much.

The other man – Doctor McKay – is hunched around the computer bag they let him keep, wearing a too large but equally pompous jacket and an absurdly thick scarf for a man whose file, thin as it is, testifies to years spent in Siberia and Antarctica. He looks irritated to be here, though he's the one who came by choice, and his glare only increases when Gibbs steps through the door. "Who are you and why are we here?"

"My name is Special Agent Gibbs and I was under the impression you were here voluntarily, Doctor McKay."

McKay snorts. "Please, like I'd let him come here alone. We only just got the Joint Chiefs off our back. Last thing we need is for him to start another war."

"Ah, c'mon, Rodney," Sheppard drawls, sounding absolutely nothing like an Air Force officer  _or_  a pompous academic asshole. He sounds like he should be combing a beach somewhere, not giving lectures on advanced mathematics or commanding a Marine brigade in some undisclosed part of the Hindu Kush. Gibbs finds himself faintly relieved to be retired, if only so he'll never have to face the indignity of having to call this man his CO. "You've got to let these things go."

McKay scoffs this time, one hand coming off the computer bag to gesture imperiously in his direction. "So, what is it you want? Money? Technology? The chance to threaten us with bodily harm if we hurt one hair on your Marines' heads?"

"Rodney," Sheppard repeats, admonishing. He sits up straighter, placing both hands on the table top, the fingers of his left hand to pluck at the lacings of a black bracer that had, until now, been hidden under the sleeve of his right. "So what  _can_  we do for you today, Agent?"

Gibbs takes his own seat, allowing himself the screech of metal chair against cement floor for his irritation. "I actually did bring you here to discuss Marines. Specifically, are you aware that the Marines under your care have casualty rates almost twice that of the average?"

"Is that so?"

If Gibbs were the type of man to snap pencils, he would at that comment. Instead he continues, forcibly pleasant, "It is, or was until shortly after your former XO's departure from the service."

This actually earns him a smile, thin-lipped and slightly predatory, and for the first time he can see how this man managed to reach the rank he did. "You're looking for Evan."

"I believe he may have fed information to the  _mujahideen_  that led to the death of at least forty servicemen and women under your command."

"Do you now?"

"Colonel Sheppard-"

"You can tell your superiors,  _Special Agent Gibbs_ ," the Colonel asks, his words like thunder on the horizon – not a direct threat, no, but the distinct promise of danger, "to drop the witch hunt. If they think I'm going to let them crucify  _him_  because they can't get to me, they've got another thing coming." He stands, yanking his jacket with its mother-fucking  _elbow patches_ off the chair as he stands. "Rodney, we're leaving."

"I'm afraid that's not-" Gibbs begins, but Sheppard is already out the door – which should have been  _locked_  – before he can so much as finish the sentence, McKay only pausing to roll his eyes before following.

They're already in the elevator by the time Gibbs as stormed back into the bullpen.

"I want everything there is to know on Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard and Doctor McKay. Bank statements, phone records, Internet histories – if they so much as got sent to the principal's office in kindergarten, I want it on my desk first thing tomorrow morning."

* * *

**20 November, 2007 – Washington Navy Yard, Terra, Avalon**

"Doctor Meredith Rodney McKay," Tony begins the moment Gibbs steps out of the elevator. "Born in Québec, Canada on 14 April, 1968. Parents died in a car crash in '94. Only living family is a sister, Jeanne Miller, currently residing in Vancouver with her husband and five-year-old daughter.

"Entered MIT at age thirteen, majoring in aeronautics and astronautics, graduated in '85. After that he went to California, got a PhD in astrophysics from Cal Tech in '88 and another from Stanford in mechanical engineering in '91. He headed back east after that, worked in DC until '02, racking up an impressive number of parking tickets. Seems the good doctor had trouble remembering which side of the street he could park on outside his apartment on which day."

McGee takes over the dossier from here. "There's nothing interesting in the money trail until '04. At that point, the money keeps coming in, but nothing comes out for almost twelve months – no transfers, no withdrawals; no expenses that I can find. It picks up again in mid '05 and remains steady through November of last year. At that point, he goes off the grid again for two months – nothing in, nothing out this time – and when it picks up again, the only funds coming in are either from royalty fees for publications dating after the first of this year or transfers from an account out of a bank in Zürich that is listed in both Colonel Sheppard and Doctor McKay's names."

"And what about Colonel Sheppard? What could you find on him?"

"The man's a ghost, boss."

"A ghost?"

"As in, the paper and the paper trail don't match up."

Looking intrigued, Gibbs asks, "How so?"

"Well, take his parents: his service records indicate that his mother died in '73, cancer; his father died in '88 during Sheppard's freshman year of college, apparently a drug overdose. However, when I tried calling the Marin County records office, I was informed that both death certificates had been destroyed in a fire, also in '88, along with all three birth certificates and his parent's marriage certificate."

"Fires happen, DiNozzo. There was a big one at the National Archives back in '73. They're still trying to piece together all the service records that were destroyed back then."

"The fire happened in August of '88," Tony says, unable to hide his grin. "Sheppard's father is supposed to have died in October of that year, long after the records office had moved to its current site."

"Now that  _is_  suspicious. So what do we know about the Colonel?"

"Well," he drawls, "Lieutenant Colonel John Patrick Sheppard, supposedly born 14 June, 1970 in Sausalito, California. Only child. Mother was an orphan, no known family. No family that can be found on the father's side either.

"All other records are pretty much non-existent until late '88, when he enters Stanford. This is presumably where the two met, as Sheppard would have been an undergraduate while McKay was working on his second PhD. He graduated in December '91, having majored in mathematics. He gets his PhD, also from Stanford, in May of '94, this time in theoretical mathematics. I was able to get a hold of his thesis advisor, Doctor Daniel Bump, who described him _–_ and I quote – as a  _charming young man you should never play poker with_.

"He was commissioned in the Air Force one week after graduation. After that, his record is scrubbed. You have names of commanding officers but no specific postings or operational involvement."

"Black ops?"

"Be my guess if he wasn't a mathelete. Whatever he's been doing the last thirteen years, the DoD does not want us to know about it."

Gibbs rubs at his eyebrow tiredly. "What about finances?"

Tony looks at McGee.

"Nothing spectacular until late 2006, when the Clay Mathematics Institute awarded him one million US dollars for solution to the Riemann Hypothesis – part of their Millennium Prize program. He received another six million Norwegian  _kroner_  – just under one point one million US – the following January for the same, this time as part of the Abel Prize. This money, along with all subsequent royalty, publication, appearance, interview, and lecture fees, disappeared into no less than ten separate accounts in five separate banks on three separate continents, but between stock holdings, currency exchanges, and known land purchases, it's a safe bet to assume he's worth somewhere between a quarter and a half of a billion dollars."

"Any idea where all that money is going?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, boss. Give me a month and access to a supercomputer and I might be able to find out, but right now I couldn't tell you if he's using his fortune to buy baby bottles for church orphanages or fund half the terrorism in the Middle East."

"Well get on it then," Gibbs orders, pinching the bridge of his noses and getting that look that says they need to have at least one probie getting coffee at all times. "Ziva-" He looks up. "Where's Ziva?"

"Tailing the suspects."

"Alone? And they're not suspects, not yet anyway."

"But you think he set Major Lorne up to take the fall for him."

"Not him. Do you remember what he said in interrogation? He referred to the Major by his first name and said he's not going to let any one crucify him _._ Colonel Sheppard isn't trying to  _frame_  Major Lorne: he's trying to  _protect_  him."

"Protect him from what?"

"I don't know yet."

"Any ideas as to why?"

"I've got some ideas," he says, standing. "Let me know when Ziva gets back. I'll be in-"

"I am back," Ziva announces, looking tired but pleased as she drops her bag on top of her desk.

"Colonel Sheppard? Doctor McKay?"

"On a flight to New York. I watched them board myself. Also," she continues, still far too entertained for the situation, "they knew they were being watched, possibly the whole time."

"What?"

"The Colonel waved at me before boarding the plane. And, when I returned to the hotel to investigate the room, I found this," she produces a creamy, crisp sheet of hotel stationary – whatever Sheppard's actual net worth, it seems its more than enough to cover a night at the Ritz-Carlton. And, quite possibly, Hebrew lessons, because on the outside of the stationary are the words,  _נהנה_ _מהנוף_. "It asks if I am  _enjoying the view_. The inside translates to something along the lines of,  _You'll get more money selling the pictures to_ Vanity Fair  _then_ The National Enquirer."

Tony grabs the camera from her bag eagerly. "Pictures? What kind of pictures?"

"Nothing that would be considered incriminating back in Israel, I assure you."

It takes him five seconds to put it all together. "Aw, really? Sheppard and McKay? Well  _there's_  one I didn't see coming."

"They have a joint bank account and are travelling alone together on a three week lecture series that hits almost every major university on six continents," McGee says, strongly implying that Tony's an idiot in tone if not words. "I guarantee you're pretty much the only one that didn't see that coming."

"Where are they off to next?" Gibbs demands.

"Columbia University. After that, it's up to MIT, but then they head to Europe, the Middle East, South Africa… They won't be back stateside for almost two weeks."

"So let's get this done now, before they have a chance to disappear into whatever hole is hiding Major Lorne."

* * *

**Columbia University, Terra, Avalon**

Terra will be the end of him, Iohannes knows that now. It's bad enough he has to do this lecture series, his popularity on Terra somehow managing to have reached rock star proportions – a phrase he admittedly had failed to understand until Kaleb had taken him in hand and guided him through the downright terrifying social morass that were the celebrity gossip news sites. He had known the Terrans considered his publications revolutionary and had taken somewhat of an interest in the mystery his life must appear to them, but had been unprepared for the level of interest.

"At least it's only magazine covers," Rodney had told them after the first lecture, after he'd been beset by bespeckled undergrads looking for autographs on their way back to Kaleb's car. "Real rock stars sometimes get asked to sign underwear, which can't possibly be sanitary."

Iohannes had looked it up after, at the airport, waiting for their fight to LAX and the next stop on their whistle-stop lecture tour of the planet. All things considered, he'd rather be called a god than a rock star.

The crowd in the lecture hall here at Columbia University is the largest yet, Rodney having gleefully informed him that over five hundred people had come to hear him speak shortly before he'd gone on stage. Iohannes sincerely doubts that they are all here to listen to him talk about his advancements in number theory. A good portion of the fifth row, or so it would seem, is here only to giggle and take pictures, and the handful that had trickled in late and lingered by the doors are likely here to take him in to custody.

One day, he'll visit a planet where the locals don't want to detain him.

One day.

He finishes his presentation and opens the floor to questions, and is far from surprised when on of the men who'd slipped in late – Special Agent Gibbs – makes use of the second Q of the Q&A to arrest him for aiding and abetting the enemy while the cameras are still rolling.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I had hoped to have this out to you sooner. I'd also hoped to keep it at two chapters, but my muse decided to intervene. I've been working on this one off and on ever since the first chapter was posted, so I'm not even sure if it's any good any more, let alone in character.
> 
> Also, as a reminder, this is an _[Ancient!John](http://archiveofourown.org/series/11336)_ SGA crossover, so _John is an Ancient_. This also takes place around Thanksgiving of SGA S4, if that helps anyone, during a part of "Exstinctor" we've not gotten to yet in the story.

**20 November, 2007 – Columbia University, Terra, Avalon**

 

Colonel Sheppard offers him what must be his most winsome smile. “Alright,” he says – rather cheerfully, all things considered – before turning back to the curious crowd and continuing, “Well, I guess we’ll have to cut the questions short for today. If there’s anything you really want to ask, the event organizers have my contact information. If not, I’m afraid this is where we part ways.” He steps away from the podium then and, continuing to smile at Gibbs as he attempts to arrest him, asks, “Mind if I grab my jacket before you throw the cuffs on? I’d rather not freeze to death before you get me to wherever we’re going.”

“Alright,” Gibbs agrees wearily, “but DiNozzo and I are coming with you.”

The Colonel’s smile, if possible, gets even bigger. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He gestures them up onto the stage before leading the way down a long hallway.After what seems to be an endless warren of clothing racks, narrow corridors, and unmarked doors, they arrive at a well-proportioned dressing room – at least, well-proportioned as far as dressing rooms go. It’s on the larger side, with a pair of elegant, if worn, couches and some artwork that might have been in fashion back when the building was built, but it still suffers from the hideous bare-bulb mirrors that all theatre dressing rooms do, as well as a particularly lurid wallpaper that time had done few favours. A pair of suitcases – matching, and likely as expensive and new as their clothing – are in residence on the nearer sofa. On the farther, Doctor McKay is sound asleep, still dressed down to his shoes.

“Rodney,” the Colonel says, placing a hand on McKay’s shoulder and shaking him slightly, “buddy, time to get up. We’ve got company.”

“Are they here to kill us?”

“Probably not,” Sheppard admits, moving away from the couch and towards the coat rack next to the door.

“Then tell them to go away. If I’ve got to spend the next thirty-six hours with General O’Neill and that squalling infant of his, I want to be well rested.”

“Jake’s almost two.”

“Screaming toddler then. The point stands,” McKay insists, rather forcibly all things considered, as he climbs to his feet. He’s dressed almost exactly the same as yesterday, with the same jacket but a different scarf, which he adjusts with an anxiousness that makes Tony wonder what he’s hiding. An unfortunate birthmark, perhaps? No – the pictures they’d dug up researching his past hadn’t shown anything like that. Something more recent then – a scar, maybe? He’s given to understand from some of the former colleagues they’d been able to track down that the urge to strangle Doctor McKay isn’t all that unusual. Maybe someone had given it a go recently.

“What are these two doing here?”

“That,” Sheppard says, the door closing firmly behind them, “is what I’d like to know.”

Tony goes for his SIG, but it’s too late: when he turns around, he finds Sheppard standing in front of the door, one hand still on the knob, the other aiming a Colt quite steadily at Gibb’s head. “You don’t want to do this, Colonel.”

“Not particularly, no,” Sheppard agrees, taking his hand away from the door handle. It glows faintly red, what’s left of it anyway, and Tony doubts that anything short of a battering ram could open it now. “But you’ve left me no other options, so…” He waves his free hand at them and, too Tony’s shock, his SIG flies out of his hand, as does Gibb’s, coming to rest neatly at Sheppard’s feet.

“What the hell…?”

“I’m not entirely powerless,” he continues, as if that comment makes perfect sense. “Rodney, d’you mind?”

“One second, I just need to… Here we are.” There’s a bit of shuffling behind them before McKay appears in Tony’s vision, waving what looks like a particularly sleek PDA in front of each of them in turn. “Well, they’re completely human. Though I’m fairly certain that this one,” he gestures sharply at Tony, “has the gene – not a particularly strong copy, but enough to mess with the sensors on this thing.”

“What gene? What are they talking about, DiNozzo?” Gibbs asks, not that either of the men they were meant to be arresting pays his question any mind.

“Exactly the sort of thing that would be useful if you’re trying to get your hands on something you’re not supposed to have, or don’t want anybody to know you have. Now,” Sheppard takes a handful of steps forward, still holding his weapon on Gibbs as he turns his attentions back to them, “why don’t you two take a seat and tell me what you’re hoping to accomplish with this witch hunt of yours.”

Tony, having long since learned to play to his strengths, allows himself to chatter somewhat inanely, “Well, yesterday we were just hoping to get a lead on a man responsible for the deaths of a lot of innocent Marines. Today I’m looking to take down whatever crime ring you’ve got going on here. Must be quite an operation if you’re willing to risk all this,” he gestures expansively at the room. The room itself might not be much, but the combined lecture fees for the sixteen colleges Sheppard is visiting over the next three weeks numbers just south of the absurd, and even that is barely a drop in the bucket compared to all that he’s already earned. Apparently being a big-shot mathematician pays, “for whatever cut you’re getting. Or maybe you’re not in it for the money. Maybe you _like_ seeing good Marines shot down in cold blood.”

Tony knows the gun will waver before it does. Anyone who had reacted to as strongly to slights against his XO’s character is bound to react even move strongly to slights against his own. He just has to keep Sheppard’s attention on him long enough for Gibbs to grab the gun and then they can figure out what the hell is going on here.

The Colonel shifts his aim from Gibbs to Tony, as expected. The movement is quick, efficient (whatever Sheppard has been doing for the Air Force, he’s had _training_ ) but there is a split second when his Colt is pointed at neither of them and that is when Gibbs goes for the gun.

Sheppard, however, is faster and manages to get two off into Gibbs shoulder before he’s taken more than three steps in his direction, sending Gibbs back, bloody and reeling into the couch. He turns the gun on Tony, jaw hard and eyes cold, and Tony obligingly holds up his hands, palms out, and backs very, _very_ slowly to the couch.

“Now,” Sheppard says, all earlier humour missing from his voice, “I’m going to ask you one last time: who are you really and what do you want with Atlantis?”

“We _told_ you. I’m Special Agent DiNozzo. The guy you just shot is my boss, Special Agent Gibbs. We’re with NCIS.”

“That’s the _who._ How about the _what_?”

“All we want – well, _wanted_ , because now I’m pretty sure we’re going to be adding _resisting arrest_ and _assaulting a federal officer_ to the list – is to ask you a couple of questions about Major Lorne. We thought you might know where he is and what he’s been up to. That’s it. That’s all. I don’t know anything about any Atlantis, unless,” he continues mulishly, trying to see how bad Gibbs’ wounds are without taking an eye off of Sheppard, “you want to talk about that awful George Pal flick, or maybe that Disney movie that came out a couple years ago.”

“Y’know, I have a hard time believing that, seeing as how one of my conditions for even stepping through the _porta_ was that they drop the charges against my people.”

“What the hell is a _porta_?” Tony asks at the same time Gibbs’ coughs wetly-

“What charges?

-which at least lets Tony know he’s alive and conscious.

“No, no, no. You don’t seem to understand how this works: I have the gun, which means I ask the questions. A difficult concept I know for some folks to get, I understand, but one that doesn’t have to end badly for you two if you tell me the truth. And since I highly doubt that a couple of mid-level flunkies like you suddenly got it in your heads one day to go after the _imperator_ of Pegasus all by yourselves, someone had to put you up to it. Who was it?”

Tony blinks. “Have you always been completely insane or is this a new thing with you?”

The Colonel jaw twitches and for a moment – a moment that seems to stretch out into eternity with the Colt pointed directly between his eyes – he’s certain that Sheppard’s going to shoot him too. Then McKay, who Tony admits to forgetting about entirely during all this, steps up and places a hand on Sheppard’s arm. “They need to be alive to answer questions John.”

The face Sheppard makes at this would be hilarious if there wasn’t still a gun pointed at Tony’s. “Did you call the SGC?”

“What do you mean _did you call the SGC_? Of course I called the SGC. Watching you hold people at gunpoint isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, no matter why you’re doing it.

“Anyway, I called General O’Neill. He’s got people running background checks on these two as we speak. If there’s anything to find, they’ll find it. Someone from Homeworld Command should be here any minute to take us to take us – all of us – to The Pillbox so we can sort out this mess without you having to shoot anyone else.”

“I hate this planet,” Sheppard says incomprehensibly, barely relaxing his hold on his Colt.

“Everybody with any sense hates the east coast.”

Sheppard shrugs indifferently.

Before anyone can say anything else, someone pounds on the dressing room door. “Lord Iohannes? Doctor McKay? This is Captain Lopez with Homeworld Command. I’m here to escort you and the prisoners to General O’Neill.”

* * *

 

**The Dag Hammarskjöld Centre for Universal Peace and Security, Terra, Avalon**

 

“You mind telling me how something like this happens? You promised us that you’d sorted everything out, that if we agreed to this little field trip that there wouldn’t be any problems – for anyone.”

General O’Neill clicks his pen and tosses it haphazardly atop the paperwork still waiting for his signature. “I don’t know if you realize this, John, but there are nearly two hundred countries on this planet, most of whom don’t always agree and all of which you pissed off when you pulled off your little stunt last year. Just because they tell me they’ve dropped the charges doesn’t mean there’s not still bad blood.”

John frowns and slumps back against the conference table, letting his legs dangle over the edge.

Rodney absentmindedly pats the elbow that ends up near his chair. He doesn’t need to look to know that John’s got his _disappointed with humanity_ face on and decides time better spent glaring at the General. “Look, it would be one thing if it was the SVR sniffing around, asking questions about Doctor Chziov, or Mossad tailing us trying to get a lead on Doctor Ahavah. But we’re not talking about some foreign intelligence service asking questions about one of their nationals they have every reason to think that Evan kidnaped, especially if they’ve not been read on to the Stargate Program. We’re talking about your own military sending people to harass us about Evan himself and then attempting to arrest John on live TV. That’s something that’s entirely within your control.”

“I’ve got my best people on it.”

“Oh, your best people. That makes me feel so much better. Your best people are an anthropologist, an ex-con, and an overgrown frat boy. And Teal’c, if he’s actually on-world this week.”

“You’re forgetting Jonas Quinn,” O’Neill says, pointedly off subject. “He re-joined SG-1 after Sam left for Atlantis. They needed a science nerd and he needed off Langara. It worked out for everyone”

That actually makes Rodney feel a little better. He’d only met Jonas the one time, but he’d more common sense than the rest of them combined. Luckily, John seems inclined to pick up the thrust of the argument, and sits back up saying, “We were supposed to go to your place afterward. What if they had caught up with us a little later? Jake could have gotten hurt.”

“Oh believe me, I’ll be taking that up with our friends from NCIS as soon as they get here.”

It’s Rodney’s turn to frown. “They’re out of interrogation already?”

“Oddly enough, people tend to be a little bit more forthcoming when they don’t have guns in their faces.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” John snorts, turning his head to door as it opens. “Hey guys,” he grins, jumping off the table and letting Vala pull him into a bear hug. “Long time, no see.”

“And whose fault is that, Mister Popularity?” she teases, kissing both his cheeks in an overly European manner. “I’ve been keeping copies of all the articles about you. Daniel says I should make a scrapbook.”

Wiping the bright red lipstick stains from his skin, John laughs, “You should definitely not do that.”

“Of course not,” Jackson says, offering John his hand. “She should hold out and open a museum library with them after the program goes public. Might make the transition easier for them or, at least, more real.”

“Any news on when that will be?”

“It’s still being decided, but we’re looking at 2012 at the earliest. Maybe as late as 2016 depending on what Congress looks like after the next election.”

“It takes five years to figure out how to say _we are not alone_?”

“It’s more the _we’ve been lying to you about it for a decade_ that we need to sort out.”

“Ah.”

As the rest of SG-1 introduces John to Jonas – and, surprisingly, Teal’c, who he’s somehow always managed to miss in the past – Rodney watches the members of Special Agent Gibbs’ team take seats around the conference table. They try to sit as far from him as possible, but one of them – a nervous-looking man in his late twenties or early thirties – end up in the chair across from him, gaping rather more openly than he probably realizes.

When he finally realizes he’s been staring, he turns beet red before asking, “Are you an alien too?”

“What? No. I’m from Canada. I only work in outer space,” Rodney adds somewhat wryly, getting a grin out of the agent he dimly remembers is called DiNozzo.

“It’s just you’ve got a couple… blinking lights… right here.”

Rodney’s hand goes up to the Device inserted into the mastoid skin behind his right ear. It’s slightly warm to the touch. “This version wasn’t designed to operate outside of Atlantis for very long. I’m going to have to recalibrate the transmitter so it doesn’t burn itself out trying to find a signal to latch onto.” He starts digging through his pockets for his toolkit. He knows he brought it with him – unless he left it in the luggage? No, John had given him enough grief for not bringing his gun to the lectures. He wasn’t about to earn John’s ire by leaving his entire off-world kit behind. 

“Oh. But they’re aliens.”

“Actually,” Jonas says, sliding into the seat next to Rodney, “Vala and I are the same species as you. We were just born on different planets. Our genomes aren’t actually that different from yours. Teal’c is a Jaffa, but that’s mostly a cosmetic difference. But Icarus… Icarus is the real deal: a genuine real, live Ancient. Not that that means anything to you.” He elbows Rodney, like that’s something people actually do. “I heard about the wedding. Congratulations. He seems like a great guy.”

“Yes, well, he’s an idiot, but he’s my idiot, so…”

Jonas beams like this is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard anyone say, the effect only somewhat marred by the still-livid scar that cuts across the left side of his face He’d spent the better part of two years fighting the Ori back on his homeworld only to be cast out by political rivals after finally succeeding, but it doesn’t seem to have affected Jonas’ outlook much. “But still. He seems like a good guy. I’m happy for you. Daniel’s filled me in a little bit on the drama over in Pegasus, so you can’t have had it easy.”

“If I wanted _easy_ I would have gotten a liberal arts degree.”

“You know,” he says, still beaming, “I’d forgotten how funny you were, Doctor McKay.”

Before Rodney can think of the proper response to that, General O’Neill reminds them that Thanksgiving is the day after tomorrow and that he’d actually like to be with home with his son for it. Time to get down to business.

* * *

 

Gibbs’ opinion of the Air Force isn’t improved when Colonel Mitchel decides to use General O’Neill’s suggestion they get down to business to stand behind his chair, place a hand on the back, and say like something out of one of DiNozzo’s old detective movies, “Just tell ‘em what you told us, Gunny.”

Sparing Mitchell only the briefest of his most disgusted looks, he directs his answers to the General. “Three days ago, Major Lorne’s file was couriered to my office.”

DiNozzo’s eyes practically budge at this information. They’d been in separate rooms for that part of the interrogation and he’d not see a reason to tell his team. “You brought us a case from out of house, Boss? That’s asking for trouble.”

McKay gestures impatiently, clearly unhappy with most of the current company. “Who sent it?”

If – and that’s a very big if – everything Doctor Jackson had told him is true, than McKay’s not just Sheppard’s colleague: he’s the man who intentionally built a flaw into the sensor grid that apparently surrounds the planet so that Major Lorne could pilot an _alien spaceship_ into orbit and exfiltrate two dozen of the most brilliant minds in their fields to _The Lost City of Atlantis_ , which apparently hadn’t been lost, or even in this galaxy, for quite some time. That makes him a traitor in Gibbs’ book, whatever his country of origin.

Some of this must show on his face, as the next thing any of them know Colonel Sheppard is slamming both of this hands on the table. “He asked you a question.”

“Sheppard,” the General sighs, as if such blatant insubordination is something that must be tolerated instead of nipped in the bud quickly and with creative use of force.

Colonel Sheppard pushes off the wall, never having bothered to take a seat at the conference table, and takes few steps towards Gibbs – and, by extension, Colonel Mitchell. “I’m sorry, but I tried playing nice.”

“Shooting someone counts as _playing nice_?” Colonel Mitchell asks, clearly less amused than the General.

“It does when someone is threatening the safety of _my_ city and _my_ son!”

“Nobody’s threatening anybody! In case you forgot,” Mitchell spits, “Atlantis _and_ Major Lorne are both still in Pegasus, three million light years away. We control the Gate, so there’s no way anybody’s getting there without a spaceship, and we know they’re not _goa’uld_ and not working for the Lucian Alliance.”

“The person who sent them that file could be.”

The General pinches the bridge of his nose. “Special Agent Gibbs, do you know _who_ couriered you that file?”

“I managed to trace it to theJFCC ISR’s Office of Special Activities at the Pentagon, but I haven’t been able to put a name to anyone in the department yet. But my contact at OSI said the information on Major Lorne was legit, so I decided to move first and figure out the politics behind it later.”

“You told us that those files had been destroyed.”

“Officially, yes. But people keep grudges, McKay.”

“Is that so? I guess I must have forgotten that while I was in Siberia,” Doctor McKay says before sighing himself. “The Office of Special Activities for the ISR used to be one of the cover stories for Area 51’s special projects in Washington.”

“It still is,” Doctor Jackson agrees, looking far from delighted about the fact. “But if that’s where the file came from, my bet is that things are a lot worse than we expect.”

“Worse? How can it possibly be _worse_ than we think?”

“Because,” the General explains, “I put Colonel Telford in charge of that department after it was decided Sam would replace him for The Third Expedition and he runs a tight operation. If he’s gone rouge, I can guarantee the whole office has as well.”

“Er, not to interrupt, Sir,” McGee manages to choke out, still a little too on edge from their quick and dirty read-on to the biggest secret the American government has ever managed to keep, “but how big of an office are we talking about here?”

It’s Colonel Mitchell who answers, voice more even than before but posture still tense. “In DC? About twenty. At the Antarctic Outpost? Close to a hundred.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) JFCC ISR is short for Joint Functional Component Command for Intelligence, Surveillance and Reconnaissance, which is part of the DoD's United States Strategic Command. Wikipedia has not been able to help me with where it is located, but I chose the Pentagon because, well, odds are. It does have an Office of Special Activities. Sadly, it is probably not Stargate related. 
> 
> 2) Columbia University is in NYC. So is The Dag Hammarskjöld Centre for Universal Peace and Security, which is my in 'verse HQ for Homeworld Security, mention briefly [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/749556/chapters/2256166).
> 
> 3) SVR is the Russian version of the CIA, which replaced the KGB.
> 
> 4) Yes, my head!canon has Jonas rejoining SG1 after "The Ark of Truth." I'm sticking with it. 
> 
> 5) Yes, that was a Star Trek reference. 
> 
> 6) I truly am sorry this keeps growing. Thanks for reading anyway.


End file.
